You’ve grown older with these years.
Sagged into them, your worn out chair,
too comfortable to discard.
I have too.
Now there are knots in these bones.
A lattice work of knuckle and knobble
and I cannot help you to your feet
propel you across the kitchen sidestep,
kick, flick, turn and lift!
jitterbug us into three am.
I cannot swagger with the same strength
of 1970s rock’n’roll
disco room dance floors.
We are old together it seems.
These feet became stepping stones.
Smaller ones, with laughing mouths
who clutch the knuckles and knobbles
We were always old to them.
They are young,
and so very youthful,
and I will show them
how we danced.
This Tuesday’s DVerse Poet’s Pub prompt is a corker! Write a poem from the point of view of someone who’s not your gender. Check the challenge out for yourself and see what the other Pub Poets have in store!
Your Grandmother lived in this blocked of flats with no elevator, and when she turned sixty your mum tried to make her move out. She stood there, biscuit tin in hand, holding a photo of your Granddad as if your mum was a demon and he was the bible.
‘This is my home!’ she said, and in the end your mother gave up. We cheered. Back then it was easy to side with the little old lady who told us stories and fed us cake.
We didn’t see the grizzly side of getting old. That bit sneaks up on you.
At ninety-five, Margery Yolk was pretty sure that she had made every wish that could be required in life.
She let someone else see to the door, the steady stream of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren parading into her little bungalow in Ipswich, hugs and good wishes in hand. She kept to her armchair and wondered if perhaps she should have at least attempted to find her false teeth for this occasion…
When the cake came she smiled, beckoning the youngest in close to blow out the candles for her.
“You can have my wish,” she whispered.
She couldn’t cope by herself apparently.
She’d asked if she could visit the house again, just to pick up some old photos. Her son had shook his head, telling her nonsense about how it would only upset her and the strain wasn’t good at her age, as if the scale of years had reversed her to a child without free-will once more.
The stranger caught her by surprise. Photos in hand she sat, none of the nervous hovering the family had taken to.
“We found them under the floorboards while we were refurbishing.” she’d said. “Would you tell me about them?”
We took turns counting out the left-over pennies, dug out from beneath fifty year old settee cushions. The ones not left-over, found the day before when our granddaughter lost an ipod between the seats, they had clattered down into the ceramic gut of a bright pink pig.
It would do well for a girl you said; before sneaking away to your workshop and painting quotes from all her favourite books across every spare speck of curve you could find.
I picked out the silver tissue paper and the plum coloured ribbon, I knew you couldn’t wrap to save your life.